Monday, April 22, 2013

Diaspora, Critical Regionalism and the Making of Modern Place





Spring Conferences: Round 3. I am skipping my 2nd round conference presentation, place ethnography: notes from the field. The brunt concerned institutional hurdles that field work entails, discussed at length in initial posts. My third round conference presentation is visually stunning, thanks to the liberal borrowing of images by Miguel Gandert. Ridiculously talented and globally renown, Miguel sits on my dissertation committee. His advice founded an entire conversation in this blog about history, representation and knowing.

Conferences are great things. They bring people together to a common purpose of dialogue and exchange like a round of tequila for the whole table. A toast and grimace later, everyone feels more attuned to their passions. A good conference feels like those excited conversations, it hones works -in-progress, brings ideas into focus. I discovered that my dissertation restructuring was not as well-thought as I had imagined  I am still  drawn to theme over straight chronology. There is a reason chronology triumphs in history. It seems self-evident, it is well-ordered, it makes sense. Theme must meet and exceed these criteria.

I am thinking out my first chapter a great deal little more for these reasons. In my first-edit professional statement for a recent fellowship application, I ended up writing a "welcome to my dissertation committee" type introduction to my own work. I changed that post, (Statement of Professional Goals) but it did remind me of what a superb and over-the-top talented committee gathered around this work. I am striving to earn a place at the foot of the table where they will be sitting and judging the quick and dead.

Next comes typology, and I will be trying to sort through people and box them up into discernible groups who share enough identity markers of one kind or another to be categorized together as modern kin. Categories are fluid and tricky things, like themes in many ways, but nailing them down as they coalesce for a historical moment is the work of scholars. I expect when I share this online I will get some shit, but hell, I have to do something to make sense of my keen observations! And this is a public research blog. At present, I will wrap-up my work with some beautifully illustrated musings...



  













































































































Thursday, April 18, 2013

Preservation Place Making

Spring Conferences: Round One

Upcoming posts will be photo-captures of PowerPoint slide shows recently presented at conferences. This first round was presented in lovely Portales, a courthouse-square town on the eastern edge of the state. Although this blog is dedicated to my current ethnographic research in Truth or Consequences I do meander out to other topics when they help to illustrate my work in town. After the third conference post, I will look at typology, or how we organize our observations into discernible patterns of similar type. The conference I will present at in several hours is titled "Place Ethnography: Notes From the Field," and I should get on with getting it done. The presentation below was given at the annual New Mexico Heritage Preservation Alliance Conference, which is geared towards professional preservation projects, a priority I attempted to capture in my presentation. It is a work in progress, like just about everything in this world. If you would like a copy of this PowerPoint (to use at will), send me an email at tberger@unm.edu. It will eventually be posted online at the Healing Waters Trail site and other locations. There are more than 30 slides, so this will take a while to complete. Once I am done, I will remove this disclaimer. 










Monday, April 8, 2013

Jimmy Santiago Baca: Ten

1906 San Francisco




Ten
Jimmy Santiago Baca

from Healing Earthquakes (1989)


If it does not feed the fire
of your creativity, then leave it.
If people and things do not
inspire your heart to dream,
then leave them.
If you are not crazily in love
and making a stupid fool of yourself,
then stop closer to the edge
of your heart and climb 
where you've been forbidden to go.
Debts, accusations, assaults by enemies
mean nothing,
go where the fire feeds you.
Turn your attention to the magic of whores,
grief, addicts and drunks, until you stumble upon 
that shining halo surrounding your heart
that will allow you to violate every fear happily,
be where you're not supposed to be,
the love of an angel who's caught your blood on fire
again, who's gulped all of you in one breath
to mix in her soul, to explode your brooding 
and again, your words rush from the stones
like a river coursing down
from some motherly mountain source,
and if your life doesn't spill forth
unabashedly, recklessly, randomly
pushing in wonder at life,
then change, leave, quit, silence the idle chatter
and do away with useless acquaintances
who have forgotten how to dream,
bitch rudely in your dark mood at the mediocrity
of scholars who meddle in whimsy for academic trifles--
let you be their object of scorn,
let you be their object of mockery,
let you be their chilling symbol
of what they never had the courage to do, to complete, to follow,
let you be the flaming faith that makes them shield their eyes
as you burn from all sides,
taking a harmless topic and making of it a burning galaxy
or shooting stars in the dark of their souls,
illuminating your sadness, your aching joy for life,
your famished insistence for God and all that is creative
to attend you as a witness to your struggle,
let the useless banter and quick pleasures
belong to others, the merchants, computer analysts
and government workers;
you haven't been afraid
of rapture among thieves
bloody duels in drunken brawls,
denying yourself
the essence of your soul work
as poems rusted while you scratched
at your heart to see if it was a diamond
and not cheap pane of glass,
now, then, after returning form one more poet's journey
in the heart of the bear, the teeth of the wolf,
the legs of the wild horse,
sense what your experience tells you,
your ears ringing with deception and lies and foul tastes,
now that your memory is riddled with blank loss,
tyrants who wielded their boastful threats
to the sleeping dogs and old trees in the yards,
now that you've returned from men and women
who've abandoned their dreams and sit around
like corpses in the grave moldering with regret,
steady your heart now, my friend, with fortitude
long-lasting enduring hope, and hail the early dawn
like a ship off coast that's come for you,
spent and ragged and beggared,
if what you do and how you live does not feed the fire
in your heart and blossom into poems,
leave, quit, do not turn back,
move fast away from that which would mold your gift,
break it, disrespect it, kill it.
Guard it, nurture it, take your full-flung honorable
heart and plunge it into the fire
into the stars, into the trees, into the hearts of others
sorrow and love and restore the dream
by writing of its again-discovered wild beauty.